


Arthur Smiles

by Espoir



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fireworks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New Year's Eve, Rooftop Kisses, The whole shabang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:50:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Espoir/pseuds/Espoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cobb suggests a safe house that really isn't safe at all, Arthur is quieter than any smooth-taking dream criminal should be, and at the last minute Eames remembers it's New Year's Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arthur Smiles

 

The ‘safe-house’ seems a rather ironic phrase in this instance, as it really doesn’t look very safe at all.

The flat is small and dingy, comprised of two dark rooms that reek of must and mould. A cracked glass door leads out onto a perilous balcony leaning out over the back-alley below. Plaster is peeling from the walls, damp leeches across the ceiling and the floor is bare boards with the odd vicious-looking rusty nail.

There are a few basic pieces of furniture. A sofa so worn it looks as though it might collapse under Eames’ _gaze_ let alone body weight, and a sparse kitchen in one corner. A modern television set sits incongruously amongst the grey and disrepair.

“Why thank you Cobb- yes, this is absolutely perfect,” Eames mutters sarcastically under his breath. He forgets how completely brain-dead the man can be sometimes.

“Curtains would’ve been nice,” Arthur says quietly from the open door. He’s leaning against the frame, his hands in his pockets in a way that suggests he’s currently trying very hard to look casual. For Eames’ sake.

He’s still too pale. Eames doesn’t think he’ll ever forget how Arthur had woken from the dream, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. How he’d lurched forwards so he could dry-heave over the side of the bed, shaking off Ariadne’s surprised concern, and then removed his cannula with trembling fingers.

Eames made to go to him, heart in his throat because what the _fuck_ happened down there to leave Arthur like this?- but Arthur had gotten shakily to his feet without futher explanation. He’d glanced up briefly to meet Eames’ eye, pupils impossibly blown, and then promptly crumpled to the floor.

After that was a bit of a blur because _never_ in his entire _life_ had Eames been so scared in that brief second he couldn’t find Arthur’s pulse. Arthur didn’t react badly to torturous deaths in the dreamscape, he didn’t dry-heave, he didn’t shake and he sure as hell didn’t collapse without warning. So Eames had hauled Arthur to his feet, slinging on arm over his shoulders, told Ariadne he’d been in touch, and asked Cobb for somewhere-safe-Arthur-can-fucking-rest. And if he said that last bit with a slight accusatory bite, well then, it was about time Cobb realised that Arthur’s wasn’t a trim-tailored, irrationally loyal robot he could work into the ground.

And Cobb had given him this address, promising they’d be comfortable. Yeah. Comfortable. Sure Cobb.

Eames sighs through his teeth. “Sit down before you fall down Arthur- I’ll try and find something vaguely edible.”

Arthur frowns faintly at the ‘fall down’ comment, but goes over to sit on the rickety bed in the corner. He sits stiffly for a second, before seeming to visibly deflate. He leans forward, elbows on his knees and closes his eyes.

Something in Eames’ throat tightens, and he wants nothing more than to wrap Arthur up in a woolly blanket and take him somewhere _actually_ comfortable, somewhere safe and warm. Somewhere he can kiss the colour back into Arthur’s pale cheeks. Maybe even make him smile a little.

But he doesn’t. Because he knows how Arthur hates to be coddled.

 _That’s what comes of sending fucking 17 year olds off to fight for your country_ , Eames thinks bitterly, and turns his attentions to the kitchen.

The only appliance that shows any sign of life is the kettle, for which Eames silently thanks whatever Deity has apparently forgiven him, but there is no tea or coffee in sight. Eames commences a search of monumental proportions and, in amongst some ancient tins of tuna and an empty cereal box, he comes across what looks very much like an un-opened tub of hot chocolate.

He starts to sing ‘Hallelujah’ under his breath as he fills the kettle with rusty looking water, and bloody hell, since when did finding a mouldy tub of hot chocolate in some decrepit flat become the highlight of his day?

Eames chances a glance over at Arthur, and abruptly drops the kettle in the sink.

Arthur is staring vacantly out of the window, his eyes completely lifeless and dull and a clawing panic tears at Eames’ chest because, _shitting fuck_ , he’s only ever seen one other person in his life with eyes like that, and she’d been just as brave and beautiful and strong as Arthur before she’d slipped off the ledge of a 5th storey window sill-

“Arthur?” Eames asks casually, trying to keep his voice steady.

It takes Arthur a couple of seconds to look over at him. For a long moment, he just stares, silently, eyes unfocused. Then he blinks.

“Sorry,” Arthur says in a hoarse voice, “are you okay?”

Eames has to bite back something like hysterical laughter because asking after Eames when he himself in a state that terrifyingly resembled shell-shock was so _perfectly_ Arthur it was untrue.

“Actually, I’m really not,” Eames tells him, turning back so Arthur can’t see his smile, “I’m having to settle for something that’s _not_ tea. Far from it in fact. I’m half tempted to go out and buy some myself-“

There’s a muffled crash behind him and Eames’ turns to see Arthur on his feet, standing stock still, face white with panic. “Don’t-“ he croaks desperately, “Eames, please don’t go- you don’t understand, you can’t-“

“Hey,” Eames says, willing himself to stay calm and abandoning the hot chocolate in favour of crossing the room to Arthur’s side, “hey, love, it’s alright. You’re alright.”

The distracted fear doesn’t quite leave Arthur’s eyes. But he bites his lip, nods warily, and sits back down on the bed.

Eames sits carefully down next to him. He watches Arthur twist his hands fretfully for a minute or two before reaching out with his own hand and stilling the nervous movement.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Because it doesn’t matter that seeing Arthur like this scares him more than anything else, and it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t a clue what’s going on, and it _really_ doesn’t matter that Eames is fighting back every instinct in him that’s telling him to _get out, get out now before you fall in too deep, before you get too attached you sentimental idiot._

Because he knows, _Arthur_ knows, that he’s not going anywhere.

And then Arthur stops wringing his hands.

He stops moving.

Stops breathing.

And then he leans slowly, gingerly, against Eames’ side- as though he’s afraid that at any moment Eames is going to leap up and demand to know what the fuck he thinks he’s doing.

Eames allows himself a small, quiet smile that he knows Arthur can’t see.

They stay like that, in companionable quiet, as ambulances screech past in the streets outside, as party-goers belt out awful karaoke numbers from the bar across the road, as the kettle whistles feebly into the dark kitchen before falling silent.

They stay like that until Eames feels he needs to be saying something comforting, something suitably tactful and helpful and manly- but as nothing comes to mind, he reaches for the remote and switches the television on.

The screen flickers fuzzily to life on the main news channel.

The presenter is wearing party-boppers, and is standing in the city square opposite some new horribly expensive clock tower. Its 11:56pm.

“We haven’t missed it,” Eames murmurs.

He stands up, a vague idea forming in the back of his mind, and reaches for Arthur’s hand to pull him to his feet.

“Where are we going?” Arthur asks. Eames pretends not to notice the slight shake in his voice.

“Ah, that’s for me to know and you to find out in a minute pet,” Eames offers him a crooked grin, and leads him over to the balcony door.

Outside in the biting cold, Eames spies what he wants at once. A rickety old fire escape- descending all 8 floors to the dark back-alley below, and reaching up one floor above them. To the roof.

Eames lets go of Arthur’s hand to yank the ladder down. It clatters noisily to the balcony floor, coming to rest with a crash that echoes across the streets and makes Arthur wince beside him.

“Eames,” he says, warningly, and it’s enough to have Eames grinning a little. The sooner Arthur gets back to telling him off the better.

“Trust me. This is actually one of my better plans,” he says jovially, and stands back with a gracious bow that indicates Arthur should go up first.

Arthur stares at him for a second with narrowed eyes. Down below, a tom cat wails irritably, and the car alarm that has been bleeping since they got here abruptly stops.

Eames smiles innocently.

Arthur sighs in way that might have been condescending and climbs the ladder.

 

* * *

 

The rooftop is unremarkable; flat, grey concrete, and completely empty aside from a rusted air ventilation system.

The view, however, is something else entirely.

City lights stretch out as far as the eye can see, twinkling feverishly in all directions around them, more impossibly complex and remarkable than any dreamscape could ever be. Skyscrapers sore upwards into the pitch blackness of the night sky, church spires sporadically dot the skyline and the towering bridge crossing the river glitters distantly with Christmas lights.

It’s the 31st of December.

11:59pm.

“It’s beautiful,” Arthur says softly from behind him, and Eames turns to grin smugly, fire off a ‘told you so’ comment- because he _knows_ Arthur has always been a city sort-of person at heart but-

Something in Arthur’s expression. Open, young, earnest- childlike wonderment. Something makes the words die in his throat.

And then the first firework rockets into the air.

For the next minute and a half, the sky is filled with light and colour and noise. Colossal explosions light up the city square, thousands of artificial stars of red, purple and green shower down on the crowds below- their cheers and woopings clear even from this distance. Smaller, domestic displays pop up from across the city; silver screamers spiralling skywards, crackling gold flares sending sparks raining down on surrounding rooftops. Music blares impossibly louder from the bar across the street- ‘Heroes’- and delighted cheers and laughter floats up from the roads around them. The city is alive.

Arthur shuffles a little closer to lean against Eames’ side again. He tucks his head carefully into Eames’ shoulder- still a little cautious, a little wary.

Eames wraps one careful, secure arm around Arthur’s waist- drops a light, barely-there kiss onto his temple.

 

Arthur smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> (The 'Heroes' reference for those who didn't assume correctly is this- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tgcc5V9Hu3g - frankly supreme number by David Bowie. I'm not sure why I thought of it, although it probably has a lot to do with being British and the London Olympics. Oh, and I thought the lyrics fit Arthur and Eames really rather well too :)
> 
> 'I, I can remember  
> Standing by the wall  
> And the guns, shot above our heads  
> And we kissed, as though nothing could fall.
> 
> And the shame, was on the other side  
> Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever  
> Then we could be heroes just for one day...'


End file.
